


Allegria

by NeverwinterThistle



Series: Fort Frolic Redux [2]
Category: BioShock
Genre: AO3 1 Million, Fluff, Kink Meme, M/M, Slow Dancing, or as close to fluff as you can get in Fort Frolic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 13:44:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1187445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The party is well on its way to a slow, unremarkable death when Kyle starts to realise he's making an idiot of himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Allegria

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://biokink.dreamwidth.org/635.html?thread=603003#cmt603003) prompt on the Bioshock kink meme. Just in time to post it for the A03 1 million celebration, which is really great!  
> Slightly more serious note- _warning for implied abuse_. They're Sander Cohen's disciples, it's pretty much to be expected, but there you go.

The party is well on its way to a slow, unremarkable death when Kyle starts to realise he's making an idiot of himself.

On his own it might have taken longer to sink in; he'd have stuck around for a few more hours maybe, getting progressively drunker until pride made him abandon the piano and leave the dancers to fend for themselves. On his own, he'd have been slower to believe that Cohen might just forget him. After all, he promised he'd return. The man may be eccentric ( _frightening_ , sometimes) in his tastes, but he promised, and Kyle waited at the piano as he was told to.

 

It's several hours after midnight when the intervention arrives.

 

"He ain't comin' back, sugar." Cobb's voice is as gentle as Kyle's ever heard it. "He's gone off with Ryan. Don't bother waitin' around for him to come and find you, 'cause he won't."

 

Kyle shrugs, continues playing. He's near the end of the piece; it would be inconsiderate of him to stop while the dancers still sway to his tune. Behind him, he hears Cobb's resigned exhale, and the rustle of his clothing as he folds his arms. He understands. And maybe he thinks Kyle needs the space alone with his keys and the music, something to ease the pain of abandonment at Cohen's hands.

 

He's not wrong.

 

There's a smattering of applause as the song ends. Kyle avoids eye contact with his audience, closing his music book firmly so they won't wait around for another. Someone else will take his place when he leaves; they won't be as good as he is, but most people can't boast of having Cohen as a teacher. The dancers are too drunk to care. None of them really appreciated him anyway.

 

Kyle grabs the book and hesitates, making a show of checking that the pages aren't creased. They aren't, of course, because nobody else gets to touch his music, and he tends to treat it like it's made of tissue paper. But it gives him a reason not to turn; maybe he hopes Cobb will say something to spare him the silence. Show him an ounce of kindness for once.

 

Cohen promised he was coming back. Hours ago, but Kyle believed him, and waited.

 

Eventually, he has to say something. "Come to gloat? He left you too, so I don't see what you have to be smug about."

 

"Nobody said nothin' about gloating," Cobb says patiently, and Kyle ducks his head to hide a bitter smile.

 

"But they wouldn't, would they? That would require them to be _honest_ , and nobody ever is around here." Not something he'd normally say outright, but he can't make any claims to sobriety. Rodriguez came by several times in the last few hours, Kyle remembers; he didn't notice at the time, but he never notices these things while he plays. He did appreciate the glasses of champagne left within easy reach. As gestures go, it's as close to thoughtful as Rodriguez gets, and the only sort of help he's capable of offering. Kind of him nonetheless.

 

Kyle stands abruptly, sliding out from his seat; he's pleased to find that the alcohol hasn't gone any further than warming his insides. Still steady on his feet. He refuses to become the second drunk in their little group of false friends.

 

Speaking of which. "Where are the other two?" Kyle asks, less because he cares than because an answer will dull the sting of Cobb's silent satisfaction. He makes himself meet the other man's eyes.

 

Cobb smiles. But he always does, and Kyle has learnt not to assume that it's meant as a friendly gesture. "Hector's at the bar, and he ain't moving. And _the_ _Iceman_ 's off posing for his adorin' fans. None of 'em over the age of thirty, so that'll keep him happy for a while." He takes every opportunity to use Finnegan's new nickname, and by now everyone _but_ Finnegan has noticed that it's not done in the name of respect. Silas Cobb will laugh in Cohen's face when it suits him, and to hell with the consequences; he's certainly not afraid of Finnegan. He might be the only one who isn't, these days. Not including Cohen.

 

"Lucky for Martin," Kyle mutters. "Just...get out of my way, would you? You've had your fun, I'm sure this is all absolutely hilarious to you, now would you _please_ fuck off. Go start a fight, or an orgy or something."

 

Surprise isn't something he often sees on Cobb's face. Dreamy smiles, smug superiority, wildfire anger, yes. But there isn't much that unbalances this man, and Kyle makes a silent vow to curse at him more often, if only for the look on his face. It almost makes the entire humiliating situation worthwhile.

 

Good things never last in Fort Frolic, and this is no exception. Cobb's smile is back in place almost immediately, and irritatingly smug. "Who ruffled _your_ feathers, sugar? Didn't mean no harm, comin' to see you; just wanted to make sure you knew."

 

"Well now I know. You've _educated_ me. Thank you for that, it was very thoughtful," Kyle snarls, shouldering past the other man. Trying to, anyway; Cobb steps aside, and throws an arm around Kyle as he passes.

 

"You're welcome," he says cheerfully. "So, how 'bout a dance?"

 

And Kyle punches him. Tries to, anyway. At least, tries to swat him with the music book, only to find it plucked from his grasp and tossed carelessly onto a nearby empty seat. Which would justify an actual punch into Cobb's stupid smug face, but he catches Kyle's wrist with an ease that suggests he was expecting it.

 

"That's rude," Cobb tells him, ignoring Kyle's attempts to free himself. It's not as though Cobb is made of muscle, not like Finnegan seems to be; the man is a beanpole, several inches taller than Kyle and slender in a way that draws the eye. Still, his grip is like iron.

 

"Is this because of that _damn_ performance at Cohen's?" Kyle hisses, wrestling to free his wrist while Cobb watches him with open amusement. "You're still sore because he picked me to assist him instead of you? You'd have been welcome to take my place; next time, I hope he picks you. And I hope it makes you happy, when you find out what he actually wants you to do for him, when he makes you-"

 

"I know all about that," Cobb says. He releases Kyle's wrist and spreads his hands. "I ain't jealous, sugar; never was. The things he does in those 'private exhibitions' of his, they don't do nothin' for me."

 

"What?" Kyle rubs his wrist (not necessary; Cobb was careful with his grip, certainly more so than Cohen would have been) and stares at him.

 

"Going deaf, are we? I said, I ain't jealous."

 

"Mister Cohen said you went to him and asked to replace me."

 

Cobb shrugs, slinging an arm around Kyle's shoulders again; this time, Kyle allows it. "Yeah. I knew the sorta thing to expect. I wanted to take your place to spare you that, if he'd let me. Shame Cohen likes to watch his little rabbit squirm."

 

"He does," Kyle says quietly. He feels Cobb squeeze his shoulder and starts to wonder if he may have misinterpreted the reasons behind this encounter. Not kindness, because Cobb is incapable of kindness as far as he can tell, but maybe not torment either. Maybe he noticed that Kyle hasn't sought out any of the other three since that night at Cohen's. It's not like him to go weeks without looking for some sort of companionship; someone to complain with, someone to brag to, someone to sympathise. But he couldn't bring himself to answer their inevitable questions. "I think I might have killed one of them," he confesses before he can stop himself, turning away so he won't have to see Cobb's expression. "She- she wasn't moving. Her partner got up eventually, but she had to be carried away."

 

The dance floor is an easy distraction. Still filled with people, and a pianist has been rustled up to take Kyle's place. They're not terrible, he's pleased to hear. Nothing visionary, and still nowhere near as good as he is, but their timing isn't unbearable and their mistakes are rare. Not bad at all. Cohen wouldn't bother to acknowledge their existence.

 

Kyle envies them a little.

 

"Relax, " Cobb says in his ear. "You didn't kill nobody; I checked, they're both alive. Scared outta their minds, but Cohen does that to people."

 

Some of the tension that's been building up within him for _weeks_ begins to fade, trickling away in the space between _they're both alive_ and _I'm not a murderer_. Only some though; the rest remains, buried inside his conviction that this is only a temporary reprieve. Cohen grows ever more demanding, and his muse grows ever less forgiving. There will be a next time.

 

Still, he closes his eyes and leans against Cobb for a moment or so. Just until his legs feel like they'll keep him upright. " _Thank_ you," he says, and this time he means it.

 

"You could thank me with that dance I asked for," Cobb says. Kyle opens his eyes to find the other man's grin has taken on a playful cast. "C'mon, I won't bite. Not unless you ask _real_ nicely, at least."

 

"You should come with a warning," Kyle complains, but he allows himself to be led unresisting into the centre of the dance floor. " _Silas Cobb: unapologetically a bastard, approach at your own risk_."

 

"Yeah? Think I'd prefer somethin' more along the lines of, _Silas Cobb: genius businessman and all 'round decent gent._ "

 

" _Silas Cobb: the hick with a heart of gold_?" Kyle laughs at Cobb's mock wounded expression, and  doesn't protest the hand that comes to rest on his hip. It's a slow song playing; the night is getting on, and most of the dancers aren't sober enough to manage anything too strenuous. He'd do the same, in the pianist's place; slow and sensual, to entrance and seduce. Get people swaying, standing close, make them aware of their partner's skin and scent.

 

Cobb smells of expensive aftershave, mostly, and just a little like Cohen's favourite merlot. This isn't information Kyle actively seeks, but rather a side effect of being close enough to rest his head on Cobb's shoulder, if that was something he wanted to do. He doesn't. But he accepts Cobb's hand in his, and the other curved around his waist, and he also accepts that to an outsider this makes them indistinguishable from lovers.

 

It's just possible he may have consumed more champagne than previously suspected. Kyle can picture Cobb's grin without having to turn and look.

 

"Ain't it nice, bein' all friendly with each other?" Cobb says. He pitches his voice low, a rumble Kyle can feel where their chests touch. "Doesn't have to be a temporary thing. Cohen gets off on his disciples fightin' for his love, but it don't have to be that way."

 

"Proposing a mutiny?" Kyle asks, amused by the idea. He's more amenable to it than he should be, given his aversion to killing those poor people at Cohen's exhibition.

 

"More an alliance," Cobb says, and Kyle regretfully discards the image of the four of them beating a helpless Cohen to death with his own canvasses. Garrotting him with his violin strings."I like you, sugar. We get on alright, yeah?"

 

"Sometimes." When it suits Cobb's mood. When he isn't feeling especially cruel, or bored. Sometimes he has his moments, when Kyle visits his store in the mornings to swap coffee for a new record, or he comes by Kyle's practice sessions and sings along for a while. When he braves Sander Cohen's wild temper to try and spare Kyle the guilt of almost murdering several people.

 

"Is this one of those times?" They're too close; Kyle can feel Cobb's every word in the breath on his neck, and if he isn't flushing already then he will be soon.

 

"I...maybe."

 

"Only maybe?"

 

"Don't be _pushy_ ," Kyle snaps, and regrets it when he feels the hum of Cobb's laughter.

 

"You're a cruel little kitten; bet that's why Cohen chose you in the first place."

 

He'd object to the _kitten_ comment if it weren't such a vast improvement on Cohen's _twitchy little rabbit_ jokes, which aren't funny and never have been. At least Cobb doesn't sound intentionally mocking.

 

If only he'd stop breathing against Kyle's neck.

 

The song comes to an uneventful finish. Several people applaud, and then several more; over Cobb's shoulder, Kyle sees a woman join the pianist on the stage. They confer in whispers for a minute or so, while the pianist's fingers sketch out a generic background melody for his audience to sway to. Then, she moves to the microphone.

 

Cobb hums approval at the first few notes. "Miss Culpepper graces us all with her presence. Cohen's gonna be riled when he finds out."

 

"I didn't think he invited her to things anymore."

 

"Never stopped _her_." Cobb's arm tightens around his waist, drawing him in closer as Anna Culpepper starts on a love song. Short on lyrics, generous with the long notes she carries perfectly. Effortlessly. She rivals Cohen for a reason.

 

He knows the song. It's one of her newest, from one of the records Cobb gives him to smuggle home and hide. It feels disloyal to even think it, but Kyle finds himself envying the pianist for the second time that evening. What he'd give to accompany Anna Culpepper...and he'd be safer up on the stage than he is here, packed in among the dancers, moving to her mellow tones. He can't focus on critiquing her the way he did the pianist. That leaves him susceptible. Vulnerable to Cobb's hand on the small of his back, and the warmth of his smile.

 

Then Cobb says, "I like this one," and begins to sing along. His voice is low, a different key to Miss Culpepper's, and quiet enough that only Kyle can hear.

 

Cobb's voice is- well, it's what brought him to Cohen's attention in the first place. He plays a few instruments too (but not the piano; never the piano) and he's _talented_ , but those don't draw crowds the way his singing does. People smile, or cry, depending on what he wants from them. Sometimes both in the space of minutes. Cobb lives to manipulate his audience, and now his audience is Kyle.

 

He rests his head on Cobb's shoulder and lets it happen. No point in fighting a battle he'll only lose. The musician in him whispers that it would be a crime to do anything but close his eyes and _listen_. Let the rumble of Cobb's voice roll through him like waves on the shore.

 

There's a break in the lyrics for the pianist to shine; humming along, Cobb ghosts his lips across Kyle's neck.

 

"How'd you like me now, kitten?" he murmurs, and Kyle is forced to admit defeat.

 

"More than I should," he says. He can feel his cheeks heating; no doubt his ears have followed suit, as they usually do when it's least convenient.

 

Cobb kisses his neck again, properly this time, and then joins back in with Anna Culpepper as she starts on the last verse. They sway in time with her voice and Cobb's, but it's less 'dancing' than an excuse to press up against each other.

 

 _I'm fucked_ , Kyle thinks. He breathes in, heat and aftershave and merlot. _I'm so fucked. And now I sound like Hector. Fuck._ Cobb's mouth is back on his neck, feather-light kisses he lays in the spaces between the words he sings, and it's driving Kyle _crazy_. He can focus on maintaining some form of grace in the movements of his feet, or the pianist's slight loss of time, or Anna Culpepper's croon, or the scrape of stubble on his jawline, but everything at once just isn't fair.

 

He tilts his head aside and feels Cobb say, "There you go. Relax, kitten, let me do this for you," before he takes full advantage. Kisses his way along Kyle's jaw and still doesn't miss a note. His voice becomes a hum inside Kyle's veins.

 

The song comes to an end far too soon, and not soon enough. Cobb releases Kyle's hand so he can cradle the back of Kyle's head, pressing slow kisses to his racing heartbeat. Anna Culpepper is left to carry the last note alone.

 

Kyle finds his arms around Cobb's waist with no memory of having put them there. At least it keeps him upright; the alcohol is wearing off, but his insides are warm in an entirely new way. On stage, Culpepper bows to her audience's applause and turns to confer with the pianist once again. Contemplating another dance, with Cobb providing backing for his ears alone, Kyle discovers a sudden need to not be there anymore. He makes no claims to patience where anything but music is concerned; he doesn't want any more teasing, and he very definitely doesn't want to spend a dance rutting up against Cobb like an animal in heat.

 

"So what d'ya say?" Cobb releases his neck, grinning down at him with slightly reddened lips. Like a cat with a bowl of cream. The thought takes an unexpected turn, and Kyle swallows thickly.

 

"I'd like to sleep with you," he says bluntly. Cobb gives a startled laugh, and Kyle talks right over it while he still has the courage to do so. "If you didn't have anything better planned for the night, that is. I live-"

 

"I know where you live," Cobb tells him. The laugh isn't gone from his voice, but it lacks a mocking edge that would have given it real bite. "My place is closer."

 

" _Try_ not to be too smug about this tomorrow. I realise that goes completely against your nature..." but he lets Cobb take his hand, kiss his knuckles and lead him through the crowds to the exit.

 

Cobb's apartment is closer than expected, in one of the smaller entertainment districts that popped up around Fort Frolic like carrion crows. They lack the glamour, the air of _wealth_ that oozes from the Fort's stately walls, but the lack is made up for in sheer, uncontrollable havoc. Close-packed streets, dancers and buskers on corners, the spill of light from pubs and brothels. Languages Kyle doesn't speak and never bothered to try and learn. Instruments he's never touched before.

 

Alone, he'd be terrified. Cobb leads him through the crowds with a tug on their intertwined fingers, sliding between drunks and patrons and whores of both sexes, as if he does this every day. And maybe he does. Kyle staggers along behind him, stunned by the assault on his senses, the sights and sounds and smells. He isn't blind to the rubbish on the ground, the unlit alleys and worn buildings. Cohen wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this.

 

Kyle never wants to leave.

 

He's grateful when Cobb stops in front of a building and lets them in the unlocked front door.

 

"Not the kind of fancy place you're used to, I reckon," Cobb calls over his shoulder, leading Kyle up a dimly lit staircase. "Nothin' like Olympus Heights, or wherever it is you came from."

 

"Apollo Square," Kyle says wryly.

 

"Serious? Y'don't seem the type."

 

"Cohen does his work well."

 

"Guess he does." Cobb stops in front of one unremarkable door among several, and Kyle is relieved to see him dig around for a key. Unlocked doors in this area seem like sheer madness. Not that Cobb is the most stable individual, even at the best of times.

 

Door opened, Cobb steps inside and tugs Kyle in with him. "Home sweet home. 'Bout time you came by for a visit."

 

"A 'visit'? Is that what we're calling it? When Cohen wants to know where I vanished to-"

 

"Shh." Cobb squeezes his hand, leaning in to kiss him just under his left earlobe. "How come you're always worryin'? What Cohen don't know won't hurt him." And Kyle means to argue, he really does, but Cobb picks that moment to _finally_ kiss his mouth. Gently, at first, just the lightest brush of his lips at the corner of Kyle's, before he tilts Kyle's head and does it properly. Arms around Kyle's waist, a loose hold that leaves him with enough control to break free, if he changes his mind. And the door is right there; he could still go. Could, if Cobb's tongue wasn't tracing his lower lip, teasing him into responding.

 

Kyle can't help but feel he's being softened up, charmed into deciding that this might be a good idea after all. Unfortunately, it's working.

 

By the time Cobb lets him go, Kyle has gone beyond _Cohen's going to kill me_ and attained a nirvana-like state of _fuck him, I don't care_. At some point he ended up wrapping his arms around Cobb's neck like some love-struck schoolgirl, and if that doesn't come back to bite him he'll be very surprised. Still, he has to admit he's impressed. Cobb exudes sleek sexuality when it suits him (you'd have to be blind not to notice, and Kyle is very far from blind), but how many people can actually deliver on that kind of promise?

 

Cobb's grin says that he knows exactly how good he is. And he's waiting on Kyle to admit it. "Nothing worries _you_ , I see," Kyle says instead. He can't help how short on breath he sounds, in the same way that he can't help but press up against as much of Cobb as he can- but he's not desperate enough to beg just yet.

 

"Sure I worry," Cobb says. He steps back and starts stripping off Kyle's tie with business-like fingers. "I worry about all kinds of things. Like dyin' of old age before I get you naked." The tie gets tossed aside, ( _fuck,_ Kyle thinks, _there's no way I'll be able to find that in the morning_ ). Cobb gestures to one of the rooms coming off the hallway. "Shall we?"

 

The bedroom is sparsely decorated; bed unmade, white walls covered with crooked prints in clashing colours; open doors leading out to a small balcony overlooking the street below. Kyle finds his eyes lingering on that, and the guitar left leaning carelessly against the railing. For one, vivid second, he imagines his host, perched naked on the balcony while he composes.

 

 _Shame I'm not an artist_ , Kyle thinks giddily. _I wish I could draw that. I'd make him pose for me, so I could look at him for hours and pretend I was doing it for art._ And then Cobb's mouth is back on his skin, his teeth scraping across the nape of Kyle's neck. It takes little encouragement before he strips off his waistcoat and shirt so Cobb can move on to his shoulderblades.

 

He hums approval as Kyle's back is bared, running a fingertip over the myriad freckles that decorate him. Kyle gives an awkward laugh. "You like them?"

 

"Sure I do, they're sweet. Never seen anyone who had so many."

 

"Cohen calls them defects," Kyle admits. There's something about the feel of Cobb's scrutiny that reminds him of that first time on a real stage, the spotlight and the silent, watchful crowd. He wants to cover himself. He wants nothing of the sort.

 

"Cohen don't know a good thing when he sees it. Forget him." Cobb leans over Kyle's shoulder to kiss the side of his neck again. "You mind if I leave you a hickey or two?"

 

" _Don't_ ," Kyle says, more forcefully than he'd intended. "Sorry. It's just- _he_ won't like it."

 

"Cohen's bendin' over a desk in some dingy back room right now, sugar. Lettin' the wonderful Andrew Ryan do whatever the hell he wants. He don't have the higher ground here." But he doesn't press the issue again; maybe he already knew what the answer would be.

 

"Could we just...leave Cohen out of this, from now on?" Impossible, Kyle knows. Even if the man's presence didn't linger at the edges of every interaction his disciples share, there are other reminders of his existence. Kyle has...marks, across his thighs and chest, maybe in other places too. He hasn't looked. They'll fade eventually, like all the rest. They shouldn't bother him as much as they do.

 

"Mhm," Cobb murmurs, kissing the back of Kyle's head. His fingers slide down Kyle's front, dipping under the hem of his pants. "How 'bout you take these off for me?"

 

"Why don't you do it?"

 

"Busy," Cobb tells him, stepping back, and Kyle hears the soft _thump_ of his shirt hitting the ground.

 

Fair enough. He fumbles the rest of his clothes off (and Cobb does absolutely nothing to make it easier, peppering his shoulders with kisses that make him shiver, to the point where Kyle wonders if he's trying to kiss all the freckles). Cobb beats him to it, sprawling across the bed in a mess of long limbs, eyeing Kyle with an appreciative grin.

 

Once again, Kyle feels the urge to cover himself. "There. I'm naked, are you satisfied?"

 

"Oh yeah."

 

"Good. Wonderful. Um..."

 

Cobb beckons, a twitch of a finger that pulls at something low in Kyle's belly. "C'mere, kitten. Come and play."

 

He crawls up the covers and lets Cobb tug him into his lap. And for a moment it's strange. It shouldn't be;  they'd be hard put to get much more intimate short of actually fucking. Pressed skin to skin, Cobb's hands running up and down his back, Kyle's fingers toying with his hair. Still, it's strange, a kind of closeness neither of them was ready for. Not something they're used to.

 

Cobb's eyes drift down his torso, lingering on the odd patches of bruising, fading red tracks left by the vicious drag of fingernails. _Don't_ , Kyle thinks, a touch desperately. _Please, Silas, don't make a fuss._ And he doesn't. Wordlessly brushes a fingertip over some of the worst damage on one of Kyle's thighs, careful of pressing too hard. Doesn't acknowledge any of it again.

 

Kyle grabs for his chin, tilting it up so they're face to face once more. So his point is made, and they can get on with more important matters.

 

For a long moment they just stare at each other.

 

"Hello," Kyle says eventually.

 

"Howdy," is Cobb's response, and then his smile is back in place; he reaches up to mouth at one of Kyle's collarbones, careful not to bite too hard. And Kyle feels himself relax a little. Tilts his head back and lets Cobb ravage his neck to his heart's content, because it feels _good_. When it stops, he can't help but make a noise of protest.

 

Cobb is predictably amused. "That works for you, huh, sugar?

 

"Do you have some kind of aversion to using my actual name?" Kyle asks. His irritation is a poor forgery though; he rocks forward, seeking friction against the planes of Cobb's abdomen. Subtlety becomes a thing of the past, less important than encouraging Cobb to slide a hand between them, wrap it around Kyle's cock and stroke him with agonising slowness.

 

"Not bad, _kitten_ ," he says appreciatively. "Nothin' to be ashamed of here."

 

"I know that, I'm not insecure about-" But he can't keep himself from thrusting up into Cobb's fingers, silently cursing the man's lack of urgency. Cursing the hand that curves around his waist to cup his buttocks, and the mouth that trails kisses across his torso. And then Cobb picks that moment to lick across one of his nipples, and the curses become less silent. "Oh, f- dammit, _Silas_ , do you have to be so-"

 

"I do, yeah," Cobb tells him. "Ain't life a bitch?" He teases with his teeth, scraping over Kyle's nipple, laughing when Kyle's fingers tighten painfully in his hair.

 

And Kyle finds he's had enough of being laughed at for one night. Between the party and the dancing, the heat of Cobb's tongue and smug smiles, he's had enough. _Passive_ doesn't suit him, any more than _overwhelmed_ does; he spreads his thighs a little wider and gives Cobb what he hopes is a challenging smile.

 

"So were you going to spend the night teasing? Because if you _really_ wanted to impress me..." He leans in and kisses Cobb's ear. Hard to attain a sensual tone with the way his breath shakes, with the friction of Cobb's hand providing a welcome distraction, but he tries it anyway. Whispers his request and is rewarded with the flash of Cobb's grin.

 

It doesn't surprise him that Cobb just happens to have all the necessities tucked within easy reach in the bedside cabinet. That in itself is a given (for any of them; because while Cohen prefers his trysts to occur within the comfort of his Mercury Suites apartment, it's never safe to assume he won't deviate from a pattern. Easier to be ready than suffer the consequences of Cohen's indifference). Kyle kneels astride him, kisses him slow and deep, and doesn't flinch as cold knuckles brush his inner thigh. This, at least, he is prepared for.

 

More surprising is the care with which Cobb touches him. Slides two slick fingers into him, as though he doesn't realise that it's not necessary, there's no need- but Kyle lets him. The man knows what he's doing, knows where to touch, how to crook his fingers so Kyle groans and swears at him. And he only stops when Kyle says, "that's enough, Silas, _stop_ , I mean it," because he needs for it not to be over so soon.

 

"Take your time," Cobb tells him. "We can do this however you want, I ain't picky. Whatever works for you." He's making his best attempt at being considerate, that much is clear. It's almost sweet.

 

Kyle says, "I hope you didn't mistake me for _fragile_ ," and then he eases himself down on Cobb's cock, his eyelids fluttering shut at the slow, glorious stretch. He bites his lip, feels Cobb's fingers tighten on the backs of his thighs.

 

"Fuck, that feels good," Cobb murmurs against his neck. "Dammit, kitten, how are you so-" He makes a choked sound as Kyle bottoms out, takes him in all the way with only a quiet groan to show the effort it takes him. His thighs are trembling already, but it was well worth the trouble for the way it shocks Cobb into silence.

 

Kyle holds still, resting his head on Cobb's shoulder while he tries to get his breathing under control. The other man's hands are on his back, rubbing gentle circles over his freckles.

 

"Hey," he hears Cobb say quietly. "You doin' alright?"

 

"Mm, I'm fine." And he is, better than fine; it's such a novelty to be doing this slowly, to be able to go at his own pace, set his own rules. "You feel _so_ good, just- just give me a moment to enjoy it, please?"

 

"Reckon I can do that." Cobb's mouth is back on his neck, warm and wet against his skin. He nuzzles at Kyle's earlobe, drags his teeth over Kyle's jawbone and laughs at the muffled groan it earns him. Does it again, and Kyle shudders against him.

 

"You're being impatient."

 

"Yeah?" This time, Cobb's laugh has a ragged edge to it. "Sugar, you're driving me _crazy_ here."

 

Kyle shifts in his lap, slowly easing himself back onto his knees. Groans at the wave of heat it sends through him. "I'm ready," he says, taking a shaky breath. "But...go slow for a while?"

 

"You want to really feel it?" Cobb's hand is back on his cock, long, drawn-out strokes to match the roll of his hips. His voice is low, barely audible over Kyle's helpless, choked off moan. "Works for me. Just let go, kitten, just relax. I'll make it good. Let me take care of you."

 

Cobb is known for keeping his promises; this proves to be no exception. He fucks with a musician's sense of timing, with an ear in tune to Kyle's barely coherent requests ( _oh fuck, that's- do that again; harder, please; right there, oh god-_ ) and a breathless, exhilarated grin.

 

It's over far too soon; granted, any time before dawn would have been _too soon_ as far as Kyle's concerned. It's a measure of how pliant he feels afterwards, that he lets himself be pulled down onto the pillows, his head tucked under Cobb's chin. A gesture that feels dangerously proprietary, from someone who has no claim on him at all.

 

It wasn't supposed to be like this. But as Kyle's heartbeat slows to its regular, settled tempo (and under his cheek he feels Cobb's do the same), he can't make himself care enough to pull away. It happened, there's no undoing it, and he'd fight anyone who tried.

 

Eventually, Cobb gets restless. Reaches for the bedside table with a murmured apology, and digs out a packet of cigarettes.

 

"Do ya..." he offers Kyle the packet, and Kyle shakes his head. "Fair enough. Don't mind me." Sliding out from under the covers, Cobb moves out onto the balcony. He doesn't bother with clothing; it's an oversight Kyle appreciates.

 

"I didn't think you smoked. Not with your voice," he says drowsily. He can just make out Cobb's silhouette as he lights the cigarette with a snap of his fingers.

 

"It ain't a habit, if that's what you're thinkin'. Just a treat after a rough day," and Kyle imagines he can see Cobb's grin, "or great sex."

 

"It wasn't too bad," he concedes.

 

"Good enough for seconds sometime?"

 

Kyle has to laugh at that. "Maybe." He finds himself eyeing Cobb's slender form and trying to work out when Cohen is likely to be distracted next. There's always _something_ on at Fort Frolic that requires his attention; performances, rehearsals, exhibitions, interviews, important people wanting him to immortalise them in paint and canvas. More than likely they won't have to wait longer than a week.

 

And there's always the morning.

 

He's drifting off to sleep a few minutes later when Cobb extinguishes the cigarette and reaches for his guitar. Strums a few chords, humming to himself, and asks, "This gonna bother you?"

 

"No," Kyle says through a haze of sleep. "Go ahead, play for me. I want you to."

 

"My pleasure, kitten."

His chords take on a recognisable tune; after a while, he starts to sing along, quiet enough that Kyle can't make out the lyrics. He doesn't bother trying. There's space for a piano accompaniment though, so maybe Cobb will play it again sometime, if he asks nicely. They could play a duet. Not something they've done in public before, but it would make a nice change. He doesn't doubt that Cobb is perfectly capable of keeping up with him.

 

For the first time in far too long, Kyle falls asleep with a smile on his face.


End file.
